there is a hollow space
in the valley of your sloping
shoulders,
'tween your ribs
and i
will always
want to be there

my words
splinter and die
rodent feet
pointing ramrod into the
smeared horizon of prose
frozen with rigor mortise and
dread, dread, dead
in a lingering way,
completely unlike the
clean bleach
coffin sealed
pool of blood way
you idealize
this is
rotting and putrid,
there is no
embalming fluid
for bad poetry

it hurts to love someone
in general
there are a lot of specifics

II. Specifics
to the locked doors
to the sweaty palms
and the ones curled up under blankets
to the crackling speakers
to the ***** running shoes
the razor burn, the entitlement, the beige
your bonds are made of scotch tape, gauze,
and the trips to the guidance office you keep quiet
the solemn solitude which you maintain
will cast you away, more than screaming ever could.
it is hard to save a drowning person
because they thrash and fight and choke
it is harder still, when you are small and
covered in a downy coat of ideals

a.) a crossed off to-do list
b.) crumpled toilet paper, used as a tissue
c.) white paper, rumpled but never used
d.) raisins
e.) sins
f.) a green plastic bottlecap, inscribed with the waves of a far away sea
g.) a mechanical pencil, out of lead
h.) a bobby pin, rendered useless due to short hair
i.) a small piece of string
j.) the small piece of my heart which contained affection for my father
k.) just kidding, that never existed
l.) the sleeves i cut off of a tshirt
m.) the heart i cut off of my sleeve
n.) a ****** poem about alcoholism
o.) the self loathing that weighed me down for nearly a year
p.) a list of the different gym classes available
q.) q tips, in the interest of alliteration
r.) one very old, very ***** sock